


Lonely Hearts Club

by scrapbullet



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Jedi!Charles, M/M, Sith!Erik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:14:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Xavier desires, ruled by his base instincts, and though there were a handful of years between them in the crèche Erik remembers well the fine, delicate control the boy held over the Force, even then.</i> Star Wars Fusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lonely Hearts Club

Balance.

The Sith have ever lived in the shadow of the Jedi Temple, their presence clouding the Force in a mist so encompassing that not even Yoda himself can divine their whereabouts. It's a gift that Erik doesn't yet possess, though his Master does, and though he yearns for such knowledge he also cringes at the thought of being Dooku's apprentice. Oh, but it's not Dooku that leaves Erik feeling sick to his stomach. It's _him_.

Sidious.

Dooku has shielded Erik's presence from him; for there must only be two, a Master and an Apprentice. No more, or so it is said, and yet, does Asajj Ventress not claim to be as such? Does she not hound General Kenobi's every step?

It doesn't matter. Kenobi isn't Erik's problem.

Xavier, however, is.

The padawan of Mace Windu is a wilful thing. Erik knows him well; gathering intel to add to the growing arsenal of information. Xavier _desires_ , ruled by his base instincts, and though there were a handful of years between them in the crèche Erik remembers well the fine, delicate control the boy held over the Force, even then.

Xavier is talented. Erik expects no less from the apprentice of a Council member.

Coruscant, ever bustling, opens up before him. It pushes against his shields; the erratic thoughts and emotions of every species imaginable, and he draws the Dark Side around him like a cloak, his anger more than just a weapon. He waits. He waits, but it is for naught-

“Your thoughts are much too loud, my friend; you should keep yourself in check.” Xavier - _Charles_ \- says, his cheeks red from chill. Erik has the sudden desire to warm them, with hands and lips and tongue, but he does nothing; stoic, eying the Jedi with distaste.

A Jedi and a Sith meet in a Coruscanti bar...

It sounds like a bad joke.

“Drink?” Clad in beige and brown Xavier is as unassuming as ever, leaning against the bar top, too close for words. Close enough to _smell_ , in fact, and the scent of him is heady in Erik’s nose; woodsy, earthy, as if he’s been in the Temple gardens meditating for hours, and his gut tightens in arousal.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Xavier shrugs. Passing a few credits over to the tender he proceeds to sip at an absurdly pink cocktail – imbibed with Corellian vodka, no doubt – and eyes Erik with blatant interest. “I wanted to see you. Can you blame me? I heard Master Gallia-”

Erik scoffs. “Gossip.”

“Be that as it may,” Charles continues with a scowl, “the news has spread. The Council is all too aware of your defection.”

Erik is unconcerned. As it stands, they know only _that_ , and not the identity of his new teacher.

“That doesn’t explain why _you’re_ here, Charles.”

“You’re my friend.”

“We’re on opposing ends of a war that doesn’t cease, Charles. To be seen in my company, _willingly_ at that, could spell your end.”

Ah, and that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? Their friendship, despite all _this_ , survives only because of Xavier’s desire. Light and Dark, black and white, they mean little to a padawan that should staunchly follow the Code like a good little boy but _doesn’t_ , flagrantly breaking the rules willy nilly all because of _friendship_ -

Xavier kisses him. It’s not sweet, though his mouth is yielding, and Erik is quick to take advantage; teeth nipping at plush lips and drawing blood. Xavier keens, fingers scrabbling for purchase at Erik’s robe, all passion and bright, vivid presence, the Force like hot-copper-static on his tongue. The glass, forgotten, is knocked over by an errant limb, coating the bar-top in a sticky slick.

When they part, Xavier is glassy eyed. He breathes, quick and shallow, clutching Erik’s belt.

“You should go,” Erik says.

Xavier blinks. His lips are kiss swollen, smeared red, and for a moment Erik wants nothing more than to take them again; kiss them until Xavier is a beautiful, ruddy mess.

But he can’t.

There are more important things to be done, and his Master wonders where he is.

“You should go,” he says again. “Oh, and Charles? My shields are more than adequate; but your overconfidence will one day be your downfall.”

The answering pulse of amusement through their mutual bond doesn’t make him smile.

It doesn’t.


End file.
